


a lot of edges called perhaps

by weatheredlaw



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Marriage, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 15:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19871890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: They marry one another on a very rainy Sunday.





	a lot of edges called perhaps

_I have a lot of edges called Perhaps, and almost nothing you can call Certainty_

* * *

In the dark, Aziraphale reaches for Crowley and asks, “Are you awake?”

“I am _now_.” Crowley rolls over and sighs, tucking his head under Aziraphale’s chin in one fluid motion that steals the breath from Aziraphale’s chest, illuminates them both with endearment, and proves false the notion that the sun in the center of the universe.

Aziraphale is quite certain it’s this.

“I have a question.” False. The question did not just arise from nothing. He’s been thinking about it for weeks, always opening his mouth to ask it, just as Crowley turns to him expectantly, and instead muttering something about the weather. Aziraphale is a coward, Crowley makes him this way. He makes Aziraphale fear loss in ways he hasn’t before, and he’s been doing it for six thousand years.

Aziraphale was given Crowley’s companionship — whether by the demon himself or the Almighty above — and he has been clinging to it for centuries.

(The hours between the bandstand and the airbase are recalled like water slipping through his fingers, as he desperately clung to the planet and to Crowley and nearly lost them all in one fell swoop.)

Crowley tips his head back, brow furrowed. “What is it? You alright?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I’m quite alright. I just…” He sits up, disrupting Crowley’s position. Crowley groans and flops dramatically to his back.

“ _Angel._ ”

“I need to ask you something.”

“It’s—” Crowley searches for the time. “Fuck, it’s three in the morning, Aziraphale. Couldn’t this _wait?_ ”

“No. Not anymore.”

He forces as much sincerity into that as possible. Aziraphale is quite sure it could wait, but he knows for a fact that _he_ can’t. He must ask this question now, because if the sun rises on them without him having done it, he isn’t sure he’ll be able to muster up the courage come morning.

Crowley rises to meet him, combing a hand through his hair. Aziraphale almost says something stupid, almost leans forward and kisses him, in the hopes he might distract from all this, but it’s too late now.

“I wondered...well, that is to say, I’ve _been_ wondering...I suppose you might call it something more of a curiosity, really—”

“Angel.” Crowley reaches out and cups his cheek. “Spit it out.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Right.” _Spit it out._ “What if we, that is to say you and I, not like there’d be anyone else. But what if we...got _married_.”

The room is very quiet. Crowley blinks.

“ _Married._ What, like humans do?” Aziraphale nods. “...Are you worried about something?”

“What? No! No, I’m not—”

“Because I’m not going anywhere, angel. I’m not leaving you.”

Aziraphale was _not_ worried about that.

He certainly is now.

“Well of course you’re not. And I’m not leaving you either, I just _thought_ —”

“Who’d come to our wedding, eh? We haven’t got friends.”

Aziraphale shrugs. “I mean, we know a few people—”

Crowley sighs and lays back down again. “It’s a very...very _sweet_ idea.” He forces _sweet_ from his mouth like the last bit of toothpaste from the tube. “But you and I...we don’t need things like that. We...we’ve been together six thousand _years._ ” Crowley reaches for his hand, brings it to his lips and presses a kiss there. “You don’t need to worry about us, angel.

“We’re forever.”

Aziraphale nods and leans back against his pillow, while Crowley settles into the crook of his arm.

“I love you,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley hums, already half asleep.

* * *

Of course Crowley is right. Of _course_ it’s a ridiculous idea. They are eternal, supernatural entities. Marriage is for _humans_. He and Crowley are certainly something else entirely.

Doesn’t mean Aziraphale isn’t still thinking about it.

Doesn’t mean he isn’t imagining an exchange of vows. No one has to be there. It could just be _them_ , just them in the kitchen of their little cottage, or next to the peonies. Crowley takes such good care of them, and Aziraphale has been reading about flowers.

It’s where he got the idea in the first place, really. So you _could_ say that the whole mess is Crowley’s doing, if you wanted. It wasn’t, of course. Aziraphale’s the one who’s got to research every bleeding rose Crowley plants, every tree his thinks about growing, every _weed_ that springs up and causes Crowley an extra ounce of heartache.

Peonies mean romance, compassion — and a long and happy marriage.

Crowley never pays much attention when Aziraphale mentions these things.

“They’re flowers, angel. They’re here to look nice, if they know what’s good for them,” he adds, throwing a sidelong glance at a rosebush that’s been on thin ice for a few days now. “Anyway, why’re you still on about marriage?”

They’re having tea in the garden. It’s been a week since Aziraphale asked. Neither brought it up the morning after. Crowley certainly doesn’t seem keen to continue discussing it, but Aziraphale says, “It’s just something I read.”

“You read too much. Marriage is for people who don’t live forever, angel.” He gets up to close the garden gate that’s swung open in the wind. On his way past, he stops, reaches down and takes Aziraphale’s chin in his hand. “I love you,” he says, before leaning in and kissing Aziraphale so _filthily_ , the angel is absolutely sure that Mrs. Patrakis next door is going to call neighborhood watch on them. She’s done it before, when Aziraphale got a bit handsy by the begonias.

Nothing against a lovely couple, she’d said. But some displays were not for public display.

Her white roses were awfully dry the next day. Crowley still claims no responsibility.

Aziraphale gives him a gentle push and catches his breath. “ _Love._ You’re going to _offend._ ”

“Who, _Thea?_ Nosy old crone,” Crowley mutters, before going to close the gate.

Aziraphale watches him with a soft fondness that will, someday, completely undo him.

* * *

They are either making love constantly, or not at all.

Aziraphale loses track of the time in between. Weeks have passed where they hardly touch one another, just a kiss here or there. Then there will be a touch, the vaguest of things, as one of them fixes dinner, or as Crowley tends the flowers, and they cannot be on one another soon enough. That afternoon, after Crowley closes the gate, he looks at Aziraphale and they come to an understanding.

The afternoon is Aziraphale’s absolute favorite time of day, and he likes it even more like this — window open, curtains fluttering in the breeze while Crowley settles onto the tip of his cock before sinking down and taking it completely. He looks down, looking for praise, looking for comfort. Aziraphale always gives it to him.

“So _good_ , love. So _very_ good.” He brushes the back of his hand against Crowley’s cock, stiff and flagging against his stomach. “You can take anything, can’t you?”

“ _Aziraphale_ —”

“Come on.” Aziraphale reaches out and squeezes Crowley’s hips. “Harder. Take it harder, I know you can.”

“I can, I can, _yes_ —” Crowley lifts himself up and drops down, _hard_ , crying out as he does. It shakes loose a moan from Aziraphale, who bucks up into Crowley with heavy arch of his back. They find a rhythm here, Crowley thrusting down, Aziraphale fucking up and deeper into him each time.

“You really are mine, aren’t you?” Aziraphale asks.

He doesn’t even have to touch Crowley — Crowley comes with a sharp cry, and Aziraphale isn’t long after him, spilling inside with a groan, slamming Crowley onto his cock and holding him there until it’s too much. They part, and Aziraphale pushes Crowley to his back and cleans him with his tongue.

Crowley cards trembling fingers through Aziraphale’s hair and says, “S’why we don’t need to get married angel. Already know where I belong.”

Aziraphale only hesitates for a second before he finishes, drawing both hands under Crowley’s knees and pushing his cock into him again. They aren’t limited by biology, and Aziraphale, for a moment, just...needs to be in control. He needs to split Crowley apart, for a just a bit, completely of his own accord. Crowley _whines_ , holds his legs back while Aziraphale _takes._

Of course he knows they belong to one another. Of course Aziraphale knows they love one another, it’s all he can feel these days, the overwhelming sensation of _adoration_ that spills out of Crowley constantly. He has everything he has ever wanted, right here — the sea just outside his window, the creature he loves beneath him, a heaven that doesn’t need him and knows to leave well enough alone above him.

Is it so wrong, then, to want more?

Because he wants more.

He wants something that will set them apart from what they were _forever_. Something that will mark them as too alien to ever go back, even as they are too different to really stay here forever.

Aziraphale loves Crowley to his breaking point. He loves Crowley like sunshine and the fullness of the Creator and with every single molecule of holiness that he is made of.

And he wants to _marry_ him.

He wants to marry Crowley like nuns marry the Lord. He wants to _be_ devotion, embody it completely and for some reason Crowley can’t see that. Maybe it’s his infernal heritage. Maybe it’s that they are destined to never see eye to eye on absolutely everything.

Aziraphale loves Crowley like a _wound_ — raw and open and there is nothing in heaven or hell to stop him from doing it, except Crowley himself.

They don’t make love again for the rest of the week. Uncharacteristic of them. Once started, it’s hard for them to stop, but Aziraphale pulls away one evening and says he’d rather not, as lovingly as he can manage, and Crowley says of course yeah sure angel, whatever you need angel.

_Whatever you need._

* * *

“Tell me why you want to get married,” Crowley murmurs, and rolls over in bed.

“I’ve told you—”

“No, you didn’t.” Crowley kisses his shoulder, then a line up his neck. “You just said you wanted to, and I made an assumption. That was wrong.”

Aziraphale glances at him. “That’s quite an admission.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Just _tell me._ ”

Aziraphale sighs. He’s been reading, something rather dry about the pH levels in soil, and he sets the book aside, now.

“Crowley, you know I love you, and you know I don’t think you’re going to leave me. But marriage is...marrying someone is so _enormous._ ” He sits up and takes Crowley’s face in his hands. “And you and I were meant for enormous things.”

“...Angel…”

“To marry you would defy _everything_ about what we used to be. They could never take us back. They’d have to tear you from me with tooth and claw and I wouldn’t let them touch us. I wouldn’t let them take you, or me. To marry you, to speak aloud the kind of vows that fleeting souls speak?

“Love makes humans immortal, Crowley. It joins their families and spawns their descendents. I don’t need to stand in a church or sign a piece of paper, but I want to give you absolutely all of me. And I want to take all you have to offer, and to be your husband would be the proudest title I could bear.

“Do you understand?”

“... _Yes_ ,” Crowley says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Aziraphale kisses his forehead. “Good. I’m going to go make a mug of cocoa. Do you want anything?”

“...No.”

“Alright, love.”

* * *

In the morning, Aziraphale finds Crowley tossing an overnight bag into the Bentley, which is a bit of a curious thing.

“Just popping over for a day. Need a few things.” He leans in and kisses Aziraphale’s cheek. “Bring you anything back?” Aziraphale shakes his head. “Well I’m sure I’ll think of something.” He opens the driver side door of the Bentley. “You’ll be alright?”

“Of course, don’t be silly. I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Tomorrow,” Crowley says.

As Aziraphale watches him go, he feels a small knot beginning to grow in the pit of his stomach. It could be that he’s hungry — there’s a bakery in town that knows him quite well now, so he takes a walk to get a bag of chocolate filled croissants and then eats his feelings until lunch.

Crowley wouldn’t...leave, after last night. He wouldn’t be frightened by what Aziraphale said —

Would he?

No, no, of course he wouldn’t. Just...that’s ridiculous. Crowley promised, Crowley _swore_. Crowley said it’s why they _didn’t_ need to get married. They met the end of the world together, and made it through to the other side. This...this is nothing.

And Crowley isn’t a coward. Crowley isn’t afraid of Aziraphale and the things he wants. Crowley _loves_ him.

* * *

And the next morning, Crowley comes back.

* * *

“Good trip?”

“Very good. Stayed in the flat. You left this behind.” Crowley does a little flourish, and Aziraphale’s winged coffee mug appears in his hand.

“Oh! Oh, how could I forget.” As he leans in to get it, Crowley pulls the mug back, his other hand tugging Aziraphale close and kissing him. It is startlingly intimate, considering Aziraphale spent the night before alone, tossing and turning until he finally got up and read until sunrise. Crowley’s clever, clever tongue slides against Aziraphale’s own, and he hears the mug clatter onto the counter as Crowley’s hands come up to cup his face.

“Angel—”

“It was one night. Did you miss me that much?”

“That’s not what it’s about, you _know_ that’s not what it’s about.” Crowley pulls back and tugs off his glasses, tossing them onto the counter with the mug. “What you said to me, the night before I left—”

“Pretend it didn’t happen. You’re right, we don’t need to be married, it was a flight of fancy, I never—”

Aziraphale stops. Crowley’s pulled a ring box from his jacket pocket, and he’s stooping down to one knee.

“Crowley…”

“You were right, angel. What you said was right.” He opens the box, revealing a beautiful gold bad. “You and I are made for enormity, for the greatest things. And if love makes humans immortal, than whatever it does to you and me, I want to be a part of that.

“I want to marry you, angel. However you want, wherever you want. Call me your husband, to anyone who asks. Satan or Almighty, I don’t care. But take this,” he says, freeing the ring from the box. “Take it and say yes and say you’ll marry me, angel.”

Aziraphale reaches out, cups his cheek with a trembling hand. “Oh, _Crowley_ —”

“And if you’ve changed your mind because I’m a _bleeding_ idiot, then I’ll understand. I will. But I won’t be going anywhere. You need to know that. You need to understand, I will _never leave you_ —”

“Crowley, my love, that’s _enough._ ” Aziraphale pulls him to his feet and kisses him. Crowley goes _slack._ “I will marry you. Of _course_ I’ll marry you. But you know that I _know_ , don’t you? I know you aren’t leaving.” He presses their foreheads together, taking Crowley’s hand and unfolding it between them to reveal the ring. “Do you know that about me?”

“Aziraphale—”

“Is that what you’re afraid of, my dear? Are you afraid that I will abandon you, because I would never. _I would never._ ”

“You wanted to get married, I didn’t want you to think—”

“Kiss me,” Aziraphale says. “Give me the ring and kiss me—” Crowley surges forward, captures Aziraphale’s lips in his own as he slides the ring onto his finger. “I love you, I love you—”

“All of me. This is it, angel, this is what I want and I won’t let you go. I won’t let them take you, and I won’t let them tear us apart.”

Aziraphale laughs. “They can’t. They could never.” He traces the curve of Crowley’s brow with his thumb. “I’d like to see them try.”

* * *

They marry one another on a very rainy Sunday.

The day in question is not _supposed_ to be rainy. Aziraphale wanted to stand by the sea, exchange vows and rings, and then have a picnic.

Instead, they stand in front of their bedroom window, overlooking the garden, and Aziraphale kisses Crowley until he is certain another century has gone past. The rain taps the window pane and hearts they don’t, hearts they’ve given away, race to the beat. Crowley draws back long enough to slip the ring onto Aziraphale’s finger before he kisses the line of his jaw, up to his ear, pulling the lobe between his teeth.

“I don’t have one for you,” Aziraphale murmurs. “A whole week and we didn’t even think—”

“I’m not worried. I’m never worried, anymore.” Crowley leans into Aziraphale’s space, presses their foreheads together. Gentle, gentle. He says, “I need you, angel,” and Aziraphale tips headfirst into the cradle of want, held and caressed and led to temptation in the sweetest of ways.

When they’re stripped bare, Crowley lays back as Aziraphale settles between his knees. He presses one miracle slick finger to Crowley’s hole and slips it inside him.

Aziraphale sighs. “You’re going to do so _well_ for me, aren’t you, love?” Crowley nods. “Of course you are. And I’m going to make you feel good, I promise. Nothing’s changed, nothing’s changed at all, but—” He presses two more fingers into Crowley, who moans. “—you’re more mine than ever, aren’t you?”

“I am, _fuck_ , I am. _Aziraphale_ —”

“And you’re my husband. You’re my _husband_ , you gorgeous thing.”

Crowley hooks a hand on the back of Aziraphale’s neck and draws him in close, crushing their mouths together. The motion pushes Aziraphale’s fingers deeper, and Crowley groans before pulling back and murmuring, “I didn’t belong to anyone before you. Six thousand years you’ve had me.”

Aziraphale pulls out his fingers and lines his cock up with Crowley’s hole They stare at one another, and between them a thousand stars burn out and are born again. Between them the oceans burn and the mountains fall away and they are the only things left in the universe. Aziraphale moves and fills him, connects them, as Crowley kisses him again. He wraps one leg around Aziraphale’s waist and pushes back against Aziraphale’s rhythm.

“Oh, _oh_ —” Aziraphale used to be surprised when Crowley would _take_ him, when Crowley would accept him, and on occasion, it hits again. He can hardly believe they are what they are, and the feeling of being utterly _possessed_ by the creature beneath him, the one with his head flung back, exposing his throat and the bloom of red across it. Aziraphale leans in and sucks a bruise just under his jaw, marks him, tastes him. Sweet and wicked and faithful, faithful.

“I love you, Crowley. I’m yours. You know that, don’t you?”

“ _Harder_. Angel, you can’t hurt me.”

“Oh, but I can. I have, haven’t I? I broke your heart.” _You go too fast for me, Crowley._ “I didn’t mean to, my heart. I never wanted to—”

“Just — angel, _please_.”

“I broke your heart, but you’re still here.”

“Because I love you, you’re such an idiot.” Crowley digs a hand in Aziraphale’s hair and tugs. “ _Fuck me_ , or put me to bed. If you’re mine then _prove it_ — _ah_ —”

Aziraphale begins to thrust in earnest, harder and faster, slamming into Crowley who _howls_ under him. He throws out one hand, grabbing Crowleys and holding him down against the bed.

“I left that world behind for us. You did the same. If they touch you, I’ll tear them apart. If they come near me, I’ve no idea what you’ll do—”

“ _Burn them_. I’ll burn them angel, _fuck_ —” Crowley’s other leg curls around Aziraphale’s waist, locking them together. Aziraphale thrusts in one last time before he spills into Crowley. He wraps Crowley’s cock in his hand and jacks him off until he comes between them.

“So good,” Aziraphale murmurs. “So _good_ —”

“Again.” Crowley kisses him, wipes come from his chest and presses his fingers against Aziraphale’s lips. “Fuck me, I need you again—”

Aziraphale nods, hefting Crowley up to sit on his cock, bracing him with his arms wrapped around his back. Crowley’s in his lap, taking his cock, both hands in Aziraphale’s hair while Aziraphale keeps him upright.

“You feel incredible, my love. So perfect for me. Can you come from my cock again?”

“You know I can, _you know I can_.”

Aziraphale moans, clutching Crowley as close as he can, as he says into his chest, “I take you to be no other than yourself.” Crowley’s rhythm stutters. “Loving every part of you, trusting you with everything I have.”

“ _Angel_ —”

“I will have _faith_ in you,” Aziraphale says, and looks up. “And I will have faith in us, faith in our love. Faith in everything we do, for as long as we are together.”

Crowley laughs, letting his head fall back with a heavy sigh. “Those your vows?”

“Something like that. _Crowley—_ ”

“You close?” Aziraphale nods. “You can’t come yet.” Crowley slows down. “Not yet, not until I’ve said—” He gasps as Aziraphale hits him particularly deep, closing his eyes and nearly collapsing over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Not until I’ve said mine.”

“You’ll ruin me,” Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley grins. “Always trying, angel.” He kisses him. “I give myself to you. Over and over again. All the messy parts, and all the parts that love you.” Crowley takes one hand and cups Aziraphale’s cheek. “I will never leave you. I will _never_ —” He sucks in a breath, slowing down and looking Aziraphale right in the eyes. “I chose you then, and I choose you now. And if I had the chance, I’d choose you again, and again, and _again._ ”

Aziraphale comes. He seizes Crowley in his arms and he knows his grip will leave bruises, but he also _wants_ that. He wants to see them for the rest of the week, press his fingers there while he pushes Crowley up against the counter and takes him again and again.

Crowley comes with being touched, and when Aziraphale grips him tight, he cries out, falling back and taking Aziraphale with him. They lay together for a few minutes, until Aziraphale slips out of Crowley with a groan and rolls to his back. They both stare upwards, catching their breath, stretching cramped legs.

“ _Fuck_ , Aziraphale. “Should have gotten married ages ago.”

“Good enough for you?”

Crowley swats at him. “Don’t be an ass about it.” Crowley sighs and winces. “That was a lot.”

“It was.”

“Was the vow thing stupid? I googled those. Seemed right for you and me—” Aziraphale cuts him off with a kiss.

“I loved them, my dear. I loved them, and I love you.” Aziraphale rests his head on Crowley’s chest, pleased when he feels long fingers combing through his hair.

They both drift off. At some point it stops raining. Aziraphale gets up and makes tea, bringing two cups back upstairs to the bedroom. Crowley is sitting up in bed, flipping through one of Aziraphale’s books.

“I think we did it wrong,” he says.

“Did what wrong?”

Crowley looks at him. “Marriage.”

Aziraphale raises a brow. “I’m sure we did. No church, no legally binding document. You don’t have a ring, we didn’t do it in front of God—”

“I doubt God wants to watch you fuck me stupid after we say we’ll be together forever, angel. I threatened to burn Heaven to the ground.”

Aziraphale considers this, leaning back and sipping his tea. “...I’d like to see that. ”

Crowley looks at him. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm.”

“Well.” Crowley shuts the book and sinks down under the quilt on their bed. “Maybe for our anniversary, angel.”

“You think we’re going to last?”

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale and grins. “After what we just did? We’re going to last for an eternity.”

**Author's Note:**

> title from mary oliver's "angels"  
> tumblr @ weatheredlaw


End file.
